Dust on the Sea

by Edward L. Beach

  But running would only hand the initiative over to the enemy. Once the tincan skipper was released from the pressure of Eel’s fire, he could more easily cope with whatever damage he had sustained, reorganize his gun crews, and resume the pursuit. Logically, he would put his major effort into getting his biggest weapon, the four-inch gun on his forecastle, back in commission. On the other hand, Eel’s five-inch guns would have to be silenced. It would be too risky to keep gun crews on the submarine’s low, wave-swept deck at high speed, and even more hazardous to keep hatches open and ammunition trains functioning. The tincan would have unopposed target practice with his four-incher as long as he could keep the sub in range. A single chance hit could easily turn the tables a second time.

  Richardson would always say he had not yet made up his mind which course to follow, when he saw the silhouette of the enemy ship broaden. There was a moment of exultation as he watched the tincan swing away, and then he realized what the enemy skipper was doing. He was unmasking his guns aft, presenting his broadside. Coming in bows-on had prevented effective use of his own gun battery. Perhaps he had also needed a little time to get it organized. Eel, after all, had had ten minutes of precious preparation time before she surfaced, and since that moment less than three minutes had yet elapsed.

  But the enemy ship must have been badly hurt. The rate of fire of her four-inch gun on the forecastle had reduced greatly. It had not fired at all for nearly a minute. At 500 yards, announced by radar at about the time Richardson saw the enemy ship come around broadside-to, Eel’s automatic weapons were hitting all over her, searching out every unprotected space topside, no doubt penetrating the thin metal of her hull to seek out some unfortunates below.

  There was another tearing sound overhead, higher-pitched, lighter-weight than before—and then another—and another. Some kind of heavy automatic weapon had opened up. Steady, repetitive blossoms of orange were showing amid the top hamper on deck abaft the enemy’s squat stack. In seconds they would be bringing those screaming shells down on Eel’s bridge. The hammering of Eel’s own weapons made impossible any but the most basic of communications. The three bridge-mounted fifty-caliber machine guns, clattering away alongside Richardson, had been directed to concentrate their fire on the enemy’s bridge. Best not to disturb them. This was a job for the twin twenties on their stand aft of the periscope shears, and perhaps the after forty. Abruptly, Richardson left his post alongside the port TBT, dashed around behind the periscope supports to the starboard side of the bridge, arrived amid the gun crew of the twenty. They were changing ammunition canisters. The gunner was a man named Wyatt, picked for his imperturbability and his rock-steadiness in pointing the gun. Richardson grabbed him by the shoulders, began to shout into his ear, suddenly felt the gunner’s body jerk. There was the sickening sound of a heavy, blunt object tearing through flesh, shattering bone, exploding. Wyatt’s head dropped. There was no struggle, no reflex action. The man had been there one moment, was gone the next. There was the ricochet of something striking the periscope shears, the scream of a bullet glancing off and spinning sidewise, misshapen, through the air. Richardson was conscious of several resounding smashes against the heavy side plating of Eel’s bridge.

  There was no protection around the twenty-millimeter, nor the two forties. Three or four other men were down—he could not tell for sure in the darkness and the hurry. Two twenty-millimeter ammunition canisters had been replaced on the two guns. Hastily he let Wyatt slump to the deck, grabbed the charging-handles of the guns, pulled them toward him. He could feel the first shell in each gun slide home. He pressed his shoulders into the shoulder rests, grabbed for the combined triggers. Despite the heavy mount, the shock of the twenty-millimeter recoil slammed against him, driving its hard vibrations into the upper part of his body.

  He was part of the fierce rhythm of the moment. The dance of death. By raising and lowering his entire trunk, swiveling from side to side, he could aim the tracer bullets. He could see them landing in the water. Too close. He stooped down a little. That elevated the trajectory. The water splashes—the Valkyries arriving—marched up to the hull of the enemy ship. The curved red trail of the tracers now terminated on the dark low-lying hull. There were no more splashes. He was hitting the side of the ship. Elevate just a touch more. On to Gehenna! Reap the vengeance of battle!

  He dropped the tracers directly into the center of the orange flashes. Twitch slightly to right and left, raise up a trifle—yes, that brought some splashes into the water—bend at the waist a little more, march them up into the area where the enemy gun is shooting from. Back and forth, back and forth. Kill them! Kill them! Kill them! A mere movement of his shoulders marched the beserk arc of screaming bullets half the length of the after part of the tincan. Berserk. The demoniacal ejaculation! Suddenly he realized that he was no longer watching a tracer arc. He had fired off both canisters of ammunition. The guns were empty. With a savage motion he released the triggers, stepped back from the shoulder rests. “Reload!” he shrieked.

  “We’re getting them from the dinette!” someone shouted. “The ammunition locker on deck is empty!”

  That would take too long. They were probably frantically reloading empty cans in the dinette. Whatever gun had opened up on the main deck aft of the tincan, it had been silenced, but the fifty-caliber on the top of her bridge structure was still spitting. Through his binoculars he could see a group of men struggling with the four-inch gun on the forecastle. He had not noticed it firing recently, and in fact he could see—now that there was no gun firing in his immediate vicinity to blind him with its flashes—that the four-inch gun was not even trained in Eel’s direction. It must be out of commission. As he watched it, however, the length of its barrel shortened. A new crew was bringing it back into action. Eel’s own two five-inch guns were still firing away, considerably slower than their initial flurry of shots, but with telling effect. Despite the lack of visibility, there were some changes evident in the dark hull now only 500 yards away. It seemed lower in the water. The deckhouse was askew, not square; its originally angular shape was now marred. Probably splinters had played havoc in that general area.

  But the tincan was still capable of doing damage. That four-inch gun needed only a single lucky hit. So far, he was morally sure it had not struck home. Eel’s after forty-millimeter gun was still spewing forth its flat trajectory tracers, slower now, in groups of four as the ammunition train raced to hand up more ammunition from the open hatch on deck immediately aft of the bridge. Two steps aft to the forty. He created an oasis of silence around him by putting his hand across the magazine loading slot. “The gun!” he shouted hoarsely. “The gun on the forecastle!” He jerked the strap of his binoculars from around his neck, handed the glasses to the gun-pointer. The man nodded nervously. In the momentary lull, six four-round clips of forty-millimeter ammunition had arrived, were being held by the anxious gun crew. “Resume fire!” he shouted.

  There was a flash—orange and red—from the enemy’s four-inch gun. Eel’s own forty-millimeter tracers were striking just at its base. Another flash, and then a sharp concussion forward of Eel’s bridge. A third—another concussion. The enemy had scored at least two hits, maybe three. But then the fiery stream of tracers walked up the side of the enemy forecastle, impacted directly upon the gun and the crowded men around it. In the explosion as the bullets hit, Richardson had the impression of crumpled, shattered bodies, and in their midst the outline of the gun itself, somehow changed, not normal. Some part of it was bent, perhaps torn away. A gesture to the forty-millimeter pointer, and four screaming tracers searched out the top of the enemy bridge, putting an end to that valiant effort.

  The tincan’s hull was becoming shorter again. It was turning, all silent, dark and massive, turning as a wounded animal at bay might turn, blinded, dying, yet still dangerous, still seeking vengeance, still heroically fighting. Richardson was back at the port TBT. “Quin!” he shouted. No answer. Quin was not there. The three fifty-c
aliber machine guns were still being served, but on the starboard side of the bridge there were two prone bodies. He felt around the hatch for the telephone cord, followed it to the crumpled, still form wearing the headset. No time to tell if Quin was dead or still living. Hastily Richardson unbuckled the telephone, slammed the earphones over his head, buckled the mouthpiece around his neck. He pressed the microphone button. “Conn, do you hear me?”

  In the earphones, which felt warm and slippery, he heard Keith’s answering voice. “Conn, aye aye.”

  “He’s turning toward us, Keith. He’s trying to ram!”

  “Range four-five-oh yards. We’re tracking him on radar. What’s the angle on the bow?”

  “Starboard ten—now it’s zero. He’s coming in!”

  Richardson was holding the telephone speaker button down with his left hand, steadying the TBT binoculars with his right, as he watched the enemy bow swing, ominous and deadly, toward him. Perhaps it would not be necessary for the enemy ship to ram. The four-inch hits forward might already have done their business. An explosive, armor-piercing shell could shatter a huge hole through which the sea would pour in an impossible torrent. He half expected to feel Eel’s deck incline under his feet, her hull grow logy and slowly sink beneath him. But it had only been a few seconds since the double impact, although there might also have been one or two other hits of which he was not aware. The pressure hull, however, was well below the main deck. Much of it—nearly all of it—was below the waterline. In all likelihood it would be protected by the sea. If a shell did strike home, however, water would instantly follow.

  “Main deck fore and aft. Number one and number two five-inch, are you still in commission?” He had not heard them firing in the last several seconds. To his relief, both gun captains answered, but his relief turned to despair when he heard their reports.

  “Number one gun out of commission. Jammed in train. Several men hurt!”

  “Number two gun out of ammunition. They can’t seem to get it up from below!”

  “How many rounds you got, number one gun?”

  “Four on deck.”

  “Run them back to number two gun! Use the starboard side! Number two gun, set your range at zero and aim at the enemy’s waterline. Open fire as soon as you can!

  “Maneuvering, are you on the line?”

  “Maneuvering, aye aye!” He could imagine the avid attention with which the idle maneuvering room crew must have been following the telephone conversation which was their only link to the action topside.

  “Shift your sticks into reverse. When I give the order to back emergency, put everything you can put to the screws. Give it all you’ve got, but watch your circuit breakers! Don’t blow them!” Richardson visualized the control sticks of the electric-control cubicle being placed in the position for backing, the battery readied to be thrown on the motor buses at full voltage and maximum current. It would be virtually a dead short through the main motors, and he would have to trust the good judgment of the electrician’s mates not to throw the current on so fast they burned out something.

  Then Richardson had another idea. “Control, are you on the line? . . . Tell Mr. Dugan . . .”

  “Al Dugan right here, Captain,” said the familiar voice in his earphones.

  “Secure sending ammunition to number one gun! It’s jammed. See what you can do about breaking up the problem back aft. We need ammunition to number two five-inch!”

  “I’ve already stopped ammunition forward. We’re checking on number two right now.”

  “Get those wounded men on the forecastle below. As soon as everyone’s clear around number one gun, secure the gun access trunk!”

  And then another thought. “Foxhole, if he hits us it’ll probably be up forward. Don’t take any chances. Get down inside and shut that hatch tight before he hits!” The enemy captain would expect Eel to try to escape by going ahead instead of astern. Astern was clearly the way to go. If there were a collision, it would be forward. Again Richardson was glad of the rigorous drill, and the careful communication setup so laboriously checked out by Keith and Buck. The enemy ship was coming in at dead slow speed, no doubt guided by some extraordinary individual still alive on the bridge, or possibly steering from an emergency steering station aft. The fifties were playing an absolute tattoo all over the large square bridge structure. No one could live under that hail of destruction. She was perceptibly lower in the water, much closer now, perhaps losing speed a trifle. Richardson could now see holes where the five-inch had entered. She was undoubtedly a shambles inside. No one could be alive in the forward part of the ship, except if well below the waterline. Only those people fortunate enough to be stationed aft of the large superstructure—which was stopping most of the automatic-weapon fire—could possibly be surviving. She must be steered from aft.

  “Range two hundred yards. Speed five.” Keith’s voice steady, as always. He must be looking through the periscope at the same time he was relaying radar ranges and observed angles to Buck Williams. Amazing that he could see anything through it. Somewhere Keith must have picked up a telephone headset, for it was not in the original scheme that he also should wear one. Five knots. There had been just a shade of emphasis on the range. One hundred sixty six yards a minute. Perhaps this was why Keith had specified range two hundred yards. Rich had made all his dispositions but one. Eel’s bridge structure must not be permitted to mask her remaining five-inch gun as she backed clear.

  “All back emergency!” yelled Richardson down the hatch and into the telephone mouthpiece as well. Surprisingly, he heard the click of the annunciators. There must have been a momentary hiatus in the noise level at precisely that instant. “Left full rudder!” he shouted. “Port TBT staying on target!” That would keep the gun firing on the beam, keep Eel’s bridge from getting in the way of the gun pointers. Cornelli had not had much to do for the last several minutes. He would put his full energy into getting the rudder left as fast as it ever had been done by hand. Buck would use the TBT bearings to keep his TDC lined up—though deflection angles would be of little use and even less importance at close range.

  There was a burst of white water on either quarter, burbling up alongside with extraordinary speed. He could feel the acceleration jerk of 252 volts at full amperage suddenly thrown across the main motor armatures. Eel’s stern sagged downward slightly, then bobbed up as the racing propellers bit into the water. The wash thrown up by the straining screws swept high along the rounded belly of her ballast tanks on both sides, even splashed up onto the main deck opposite the silent mufflers of the after engineroom.

  “Number two five-inch has ammunition, Bridge. We’re opening fire!” The announcement by telephone was almost blotted out by the roar of the five-inch gun, all the louder for having been awaited so long. At point-blank range the effect was tremendous. The shell struck the water just upon entry into the enemy bow a few feet on the starboard side of her stem, must have traveled nearly the entire length of the enemy ship before exploding somewhere in its after portion. Richardson could see water pouring through the neat round hole it had made in the bow shell plating. The fifty-caliber machine guns were coming into their own at the close range. The “foxhole,” particularly, maintained an enfilading crossfire that swept the enemy decks from a totally different direction. In the meantime, Eel’s surprise movement astern was carrying her to starboard of the enemy, curving to her own port. The second shot of the five-inch gun consequently entered the tincan’s side somewhere in the vicinity of the bridge, traveled on an angular course entirely through the ship, and detonated in the water beyond it. The splash of the underwater explosion threw up a column of spray behind the tortured hulk. It was clear now that the enemy ship would miss in its desperate charge, was, in fact, no longer manageable.

  Richardson was suddenly conscious of Keith’s presence alongside of him on the bridge as the third and then the fourth devastating blows from the five-inch were dealt. Eel, in her curving reverse course, had in effect ma
neuvered so that the enemy remained constantly on her port beam as he staggered the last hundred yards of his final, hopeless effort. Now the Mikura-class frigate lay on the water, tired, prostrate, visibly sinking.

  “All stop!” shouted Richardson. “Cease fire! Cease fire!”

  The silence was unbelievable. Richardson’s eardrums felt as if they had closed up in self-protection and now were having difficulty readjusting to the normal noises at sea. Gradually he became aware of a whistling sound, combined with a gurgling and a pouring of water. Eel’s own sternward motion, diminishing, was responsible for some of it; but more, he realized, particularly the whistling noise, must come from the enemy ship. Of course she had closed all her watertight doors and hatches, but she had been riddled by so many small holes, as well as the large ones made by the five-inch guns, that there was no capability left in her shattered hull to hold an air bubble. The noise was air whistling out of the holes throughout her body.

  She lay flat on the water, her deck at the water’s edge, her squat bridge-deckhouse combination, splintered and shattered, standing vertically like a lighthouse in a quiet sea. Air still bubbled from within her, making a dozen ridiculous little geysers as it escaped from the now submerged hull. Eel, her sternway petering out, had traced a semicircle in the astern direction. He could see it all, though it was a dark night. The ruined bridge began leaning to starboard, and simultaneously the forward part of the little ship sank lower so that the square structure never fell into the sea, but instead seemingly quartered into it. As the steel hull which supported it slowly upended, bow first, its stern momentarily reappeared above the surface. Then the whole thing was gone.

  Richardson waited a moment. The next move should be to pick up survivors, but if any depth charges had been made ready in anticipation of another attack, they would go off soon, probably about the time they reached the bottom of the sea. The wait, which seemed interminable, could not have been long. Once again, as had happened the previous day, the ocean erupted around the grave of the sunken ship. When all was quiet once more, there was no life left. Only a few shattered timbers tossing helplessly in a white canopy of foam on a suddenly uneasy sea, and tiny pieces of debris speckling it all, like pepper from a grinder on whipped cream.